Halves
by WhatWeReallyWant67
Summary: She would die if he were to die... Even when she had lain in his embrace thousands of times, the thought persisted. This boastful idea, this wistful promise of a blindly loving seventeen year old, came to define who she was. And when she looked into his round eyes...she knew that he had made the same promise.


_**Halves**_

_WhatWeReallyWant67_

** AN: I was, like almost everyone, I'm sure, utterly enrapt by the Talia/Bane storyline. Honestly, I can't get enough. It was a grand mix of Nolan's masterful storytelling and Tom Hardy's breathtaking performance. I can't get enough of this man, and I can't get enough of these two!**

** Though I prefer stories from Bane's point of view, this will be mainly Talia centric, because I have yet to understand the complicated character of Bane quite well enough to write for him, though it may happen after I've seen the movie three times :D.**

** Also, this fandom is full of beautifully talented writers, and I walk apprehensively into their midst with something highly influenced by their works. I suggest, if you're just starting out, that you literally read everything with Bane and Talia on this website (like I do/did), because I guarantee you, there is nothing bad to be found. Everything is comprehensive and wonderful. Mine won't be, but I can pretend to be one of you guys, right? Right. Enough babble, here goes.**

…

Talia was, at seventeen, still unsure of her body. She could make it do things that few other bodies could—kill, twist, jump, and yet her knowledge was limited. There had been no real learning in The Pit—only doing.

So when, at age fourteen, she had found her father and had slept in a warm bed for the first time in her life, she was terrified to wake up in a pool of her own blood. Thoughts rushed through her mind. The first was terrifying and familiar: a man had come in and had her in the night. The second, irrational yet wholly as terrifying, was that her insides were falling out from inside her. She whimpered the name of her protector , though she knew consciously that he would be nowhere close enough to hear.

Instead, her father (a man cold and tall with whom she shared nothing in common) came in and when she wordlessly motioned to the pool of blood in her bed, he even had the audacity to chuckle. He took her by the shoulder to the doctor who worked for him, a woman named Kalida, who explained to her the meaning of life and the blood running between her thighs. They change the sheets and give her a wad of cloth.

When she was there for a week, the thoughts that had pestered her four year long journey to Ra's Al Ghul—get him out, be in his arms again, go back for him—finally became too much for her father to take. After arguments, and a two day long food strike, he agreed to go back with his men and retrieve her friend.

She was the last down into the pit on the rescue mission. Her father's men fought with the men of the pit and she could, for the first time, walk freely in hell.

"Talia—!" Her father called and she raced towards the unfamiliar call of his voice.

She caught a glimpse of him as she rounded a corner before landing beside him in the dust. His face was covered in thick, dirty rags fashioned to be bandages, and for the first time, she thought of how beautiful she remembered his face being—manly, and handsome with lovely round lips. It was not the last time she had these thoughts. They pained her. They shamed her. She wondered if his lips were even there anymore.

She whispered his name and he turned slowly towards her. His eyes, dull and delirious lit when they reached hers. Their matching eyes—blue and now full of falling tears—only left each other for the time it took for her to remove the bandages.

She ended her effort with a whimper as she glanced the gravity of his sacrifice. It was real. He had truly, in all honesty, given his life for her. His beauty, his strength, and here she was, unable to give anything back. But there was something so, horrifyingly beautiful in it. At first, she supposed, yes, it disgusted her. But the moment was fleeting. His passion for her was in those scars, all his past beauty, all of his strength, had gone into making them and there was something beautiful in that. There was everything beautiful in that, and suddenly he was the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on (though there weren't many—and even later when she had traveled the world and had seen many, her opinion never faltered).

He tried to reach his hand up to push her face away but she caught it and kissed the inside of his wrist. Then, she leaned forward and brushed her lips across his broken cheek like he used to do when she was young and frightened.

"I'm here, now. I will never leave your side again."

…

Three years had passed. He now covered his beautiful face with the mask, the mask that made him whole and allowed him to move. Movement turned into fighting, fighting turned into excellence. He was, easily, the most effective fighter in the group. He was proud, joyful, even, to be fighting on her behalf. On her father's. He was the man who saved him, after all. His father gave him the name of Bane, just as he had given her the name Talia, her real name long dead alongside her mother.

Ra's Al Ghul, however, did not feel the same about her guardian. He feared the ragged breath, the breadth of his shoulders, the lingering looks he shared with his daughter. Who was he to look at her that way? Talia saw the way her father looked at her dear one and she hated him for it. The same thought flashed through her mind, who was he to look at him that way?

The three years had molded her body into something that confused her all the more. Her breasts had grown to the point where they had to be taped down for sparring, and her hips had curved. The bleeding now came monthly. She was a "woman", as her father declared proudly. She was not a woman. She was a only half a human. He wasn't a "beast", as her father deemed harshly. He was another half. Together, they made something full and pure.

They only sparred alone. During the day, they were not allowed to fight one another because of the seemingly eternal glare of her father. Here, at night, they were comfortable and alone. Neither had to speak, there was nothing to be said because there was nothing they could not express wordlessly.

They did not touch each other while sparring, they moved in a graceful and effortless dance. It was about one out showing the other, not simply about fighting. The challenge for him was finding the grace to hold back yet continue to outsmart her, the challenge for her was fighting someone so much larger and more experienced than her.

This time, however, was different. She had had a long, difficult day and was moving slower than she was used to moving. He threw an open palmed jab towards her chest, and she underestimated the time it would take for her to turn away and his hand lightly brushed her breasts.

There was a feeling, fleeting however it was, of shock. And then, there was a deep thrum that started there and then made its way down low, into her stomach and then to the juncture between her thighs. The feeling startled her more than the contact and she gasped at its existence.

She looked into his eyes and they stood in a different kind of silence. He looked at her with a nervousness that she had never seen. She could tell he knew what had happened. She wanted to ask him what it was, the jolt. He turned and she grabbed his arm.

"Where are you going?"

"To bed, little dove."

She didn't question why. She knew why, she just wasn't quite sure what it meant. What he meant by calling her little dove, when she certainly wasn't little anymore.

The next week he avoided her almost religiously. She didn't understand. Her father seemed pleased, and he smiled more in her presence than he was used to. It only made it worse.

She thought about the feeling constantly. It became all consuming until one night, after being turned away from his bedroom again, she sought the answers on her own.

Her hand brushed against her breasts. She felt nothing. She thought of her friend, tall and broad shouldered, and tried again. There it was, shooting and jolting through her skin. She tried grasping at her breast, swollen and hot and, again, the feeling persisted. Only this time it was stronger, like a virus gaining a foothold. She licked her lips and ran her hand down to where it seemed the most severe, between her legs. She was a little confused to find that there was a wetness coating her thighs. She tried to remember what the doctor had told her about men and women, how they coupled—and she realized that this all had to do exactly with that.

When she was young she had understood the mechanics of it, as hard as her protector had tried to shield her from the brutality with which the men treated the women in the pit, she had seen woman after woman be penetrated in agonizing pain. The idea of it had made her fearful.

But this wasn't painful; this was wondrous. This was the sky opening up and the first true glance she got at the sun, at the sea.

She ran her fingers across the length of her slit, before glancing something that made her toes curl and she cried out his name, the name only they knew. She found the place and again, the name slipped from her lips until it became a chant.

Outside her door there was a noise but she ignored it. This was too perfect. She was getting somewhere, she was approaching something only she wasn't quite sure what it was. But something wasn't right, and she couldn't get there. She was reaching for it, but she just barely brushed it with her finger tips.

She called out again and her door opened. In the place between her room and the hallway stood her protector, tall and panting. He looked like he was expecting a fight. Like there was some unknown attacker assaulting her, but the attacker was herself. He was wearing only pants, his bare chest absorbing the mountain's moonlight.

She was under the blanket so it took a moment for him to perceive what it was she was doing. She panted as she looked at him. He gasped when the realization hit him, the intake sounding guttural and mechanical through the mask. She didn't stop. This was for him. This was because he brushed her and she felt something; she only felt with him. She reached her free hand towards him. She wanted him closer, maybe if he'd just hold her, she could get there. She could find that place and be free of this feeling.

He shook his head. She reached harder and whispered _please. _She supposed it meant a lot of things, _please don't go, please help me, please be with me, please __**love me**_. The last one scared her, but it was the reason for the fear that teased her, the teasing that it was true. This moment, that moment, were the moments where their relationship was changing. He was something else to her, and she wanted to be something else to him. She wanted to be less like that bald child he had cradled when they were both young, him barely a man and her barely a person. She wanted to be a lover now, now that she understood. She wanted him to want her to be.

There was a moment where they locked eyes and she realized that all this time they had been sparring, all this time, this had been there. It had been there since she had brushed her lips across his cheek when they had met again. He did love her. He loved her the way her mother loved her father, the way a husband loves a wife. She saw it in his eyes. She clutched her hand and groaned out loud and he shut the door.

He walked slowly towards her bed and when he was close enough, she grabbed the material of his pants and pulled him to her. She sat up, pausing her actions, only to caress his chest and lean her forehead against the sheet of muscle before her. He smelled of rubbing alcohol and sweat . She rose herself to her knees and put her hands on either side of his head. She wanted so badly to kiss him. She brushed her lips across the metal of his mask and she let him twine his arms around her waist. Their foreheads touched and for a moment, they just made eye contact. There was so much that needed to be said, but that could wait. There was so much that needed to be done—establish what these new feelings meant, to feel more, to _be _more. But that could come later. This was now.

She moaned when his hand reached between them and touched her. She couldn't keep herself still. She writhed in his arms, and so he held her against him. He circled the nub with a wide, calloused finger and oh, god she was almost there—it was so close. Her hands were on his shoulders and her nails dug into his arms, nearly drawing blood. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to; he didn't want to—he was watching her. She mewed loudly as he reached in and put a finger inside her, where she hadn't dreamed of going and curled it dangerously. She cried his name again, as his thumb circled the nub again and again. The precipice was so close she could taste it. She thrust herself at his hand without a care.

"Dove," he growled, "look at me."

She forced her eyes open and she sought his. Their eyes met and as she looked into the blue that consumed her, she fell over the edge and into her orgasm.

She had never felt anything like it and as she clutched at his chest she could see the smile in his eyes. It was a moment of pure peace; there was nothing in the world other than them, they could have been anywhere but it didn't matter. She was shattered and he put her back to together with his brilliant blue eyes.

He let her recover while giving a few gentle strokes with his finger tips. He held her from the waist and laid on her bed, with her still above him. She was confused, she didn't know why he was doing this. She rested on his chest and he placed his hands gently on her breasts, admiring their soft curvature and the light brown nub placed gently in the middle. He pulled off his pants quickly, she wasn't at all quite sure how he managed it, and she turned and for the first time saw a man. She thought in this moment that he would be the only man that she would ever see, and he was beautiful. She thought that she might have been afraid, seeing a man like this, but it actually was quite the opposite. She felt the pang of feeling again. She reached out to touch it but he stopped her quickly.

He lifted her hips easily and positioned her over him. She looked at him, and for the first time all night, she felt a little nervous. He reached out and touched her chin, grazing his thumb over her lips in a sort of kiss. He was the only one she would ever want to do this to her. She nodded and he pushed her hips down until he was sheathed inside of her. She cried out as she felt something was tearing inside her. She placed her hands on his chest and dug her nails into him. He sat up and she wrapped her arms around his thick neck. He whispered words into her ear in Arabic, sweet words of comfort, love and encouragement. When the pain had dulled, when it was melted away, she realized that for the first time in their lives, they were physically connected. She could feel the breath in his lungs. She could feel his heart beat. They were more than spiritually connected, which they always had been, they were now truly one being. She let her hands remain clenched on his chest as he slowly began to thrust inside of her.

She mourned the loss of him each time he pulled out, only to nearly squeal in delight as he gently plunged back in. Their movements mimicked each other, she met him with every thrust, and soon she felt that he was lifting her to that precipice again. He reached one hand between them and delicately rubbed her and she cried out. Closer and closer they drove together to that place. She rocked her hips on his and they mashed together violently now, all pretext of gentility long blown out of both of their minds. He rubbed her and as they looked into each other's eyes, they came together, magically and perfectly. It would be the only time this would happen during their time together. It was the only time it needed to.

They lay back onto her bed together and she wondered silently if this would be the only time that he would let this happen. He knew that he was on delicate ground here, a misstep like this would warrant his excommunication. This thought penetrated her mind like a bullet. She never wanted to be torn from him, now that she knew how it felt to be so connected.

She traced the lines of his scarring with her finger tips. No, this man, this perfect creature, who had lifted her up to crawl out of the darkness and who had taken the beating for her so hard that he had no face to kiss her with now, this man was all hers and to leave him behind again, would be a fate she would never consider.

She would die if he were to die; she would take her own life if it were warranted. Even when she had lain in his embrace thousands of times, the thought persisted. This boastful idea, this wistful promise of a blindly loving seventeen year old came to define who she was. And when she looked into his round eyes, the only thing that made him the man that she had initially known, she knew that he had made the same promise.

They were two halves of the same being, after all.


End file.
